the sting of betrayal
by evaschon95
Summary: Héctor confronts Ernesto about the stolen songs. Something of a sequel to my previous 'Coco' fanfiction - 'the sound of thievery'. Also includes Héctor meeting Cheech for the first time. And Ernesto is the villain so take everything he says in this fanfic with a grain of salt. ;) (Cover image taken from Google.)


He didn't know what to do with his days.

Back in the Land of the Living, he had had his music. His beloved guitar. His notebook where he composed both his songs and his letters to Coco. He had tried writing to Imelda once and the letter had been sent back, the envelope stamped with those harsh red words: _Return to Sender_. But he had always felt encouraged by the fact that Imelda allowed Coco to read and respond to the letters he sent her.

Now, without his guitar in his hand and his family by his side he wandered the streets of the Land of the Dead by day and haunted the bars by night.

Technically, he couldn't get drunk. Not as a skeleton. It didn't stop him from trying, though.

It had been eleven, perhaps twelve years since he had left the Land of the Living and Héctor hated his life – or, rather, death – a little more each time he failed to cross the bridge.

As far as he was concerned there was only one person who was to blame for his inability to pass over and see his family and it wasn't Imelda.

Which was why, when he learned of Ernesto's sudden death, Héctor set off at a mad run toward the border. Ernesto would have to be processed through the arrivals center just like everyone else, even if he was a celebrity.

Héctor rolled his eyes. A celebrity. Ernesto was nothing more than a second-rate performer, a cheap charlatan.

"No, no, no..." he breathed as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the building with _'Llegadas'_ written in brass letters. A huge crowd of people had surrounded the place, smashing their faces against the windows, attempting to catch a glimpse of Ernesto. From what Héctor could see of the inside, it was similarly packed with fans.

He had always imagined that his first conversation with Ernesto here in the Land of Dead would be somewhere a little...quieter. Somewhere he could get his thoughts together and have an honest chat about Coco and Imelda and his songs.

Héctor tried to push through the crowd. It was all but impossible.

A hand tapped his shoulder. "I thought I recognized you, _muchacho_!"

Héctor stared at the man in front of him, trying to place the face.

"Alberto, remember? You recognized my song."

"Ah, yes, I remember you."

Alberto clutched his guitar case a little tighter. "I'm hopin' that de la Cruz will autograph my guitar." He shook his head with something that looked like awe. Apparently he'd adopted his sister's obsession with Ernesto. "Too bad that he died so young, of course, but he will have twice the fame down here. Just look around!"

Héctor was looking. And what he saw made him angry. Ernesto deserved none of this.

It wasn't as though he wanted the fame. He'd given up the desire for popularity, for applause long ago. But couldn't Ernesto have used his fame to ensure that Héctor would be remembered as well?

"Coming through!" came a rough, deep-throated voice and then the crowd parted in a flurry of stumbling and tripping and stepping on each other's feet as several large security guards muscled their way through the sea of skeletons. Héctor skidded backwards to avoid being shoved aside. But he didn't move so far away that he couldn't see Ernesto in the middle of the group of guards.

"Ernesto!" he shouted and for a moment he was sure that his old friend had heard him. He saw Ernesto hesitate for a moment, look around, listen. But then the security guards swept him into a limo and, just like that, he was gone.

Grumbling among themselves, the crowd dispersed, leaving Héctor standing outside the arrivals center. A _"Welcome home, Ernesto!"_ poster slapped against his leg, blown there by the wind from a passing trolley car. He kicked it away and watched it drift out of sight.

Just like his last flicker of hope.

"That is the life, my friend." It was Alberto again. Héctor rolled his eyes. This guy...why did he keep showing up? "Wealth, fame..." Alberto sighed. "Your very own dream mansion."

Héctor whirled around. "Wait. Do you know where Ernesto is staying?"

Alberto grinned. "For sure, _muchacho_. Everyone knows where de la Cruz lives."

Obviously not everyone. But Héctor didn't feel like mentioning it.

"C'mon," Alberto said, hopping on one of the trolleys that always seemed to pass by whenever you needed them. "I'll show you the way."

/

"Ay..."

Héctor could think of several things to say when Ernesto's spiral mansion came into view, but he kept them to himself. Alberto followed him to the shuttle station where several security guards stood around, talking and laughing and smoking.

"Who are you two?" one of the guards demanded.

Héctor stepped forward, removing his straw hat as he spoke. "My name is Héctor Rivera. I was-am Ernesto's best friend. Just give him my name. He'll see me."

The security guard eyed Héctor for a long moment before turning his attention to Alberto. "And who's this?"

"I'm...nobody," Alberto said, his voice suddenly nervous. "I'll leave now." He nodded at Héctor. "Good luck, _muchacho_."

He shook Alberto's hand. "You too, _amigo_." He watched Alberto leave.

"So," he said a moment later. "De la Cruz?"

The guard stepped away and into a tiny booth. He took down a telephone receiver and spoke into it for a couple moments before returning to where Héctor stood.

"Señor de la Cruz says he doesn't remember anyone by the name of Héctor Rivera. You'll need to leave now."

This-this had to be a mistake! He had only died a few years ago and Ernesto could not have forgotten him in that amount of time. Ernesto was a lying rat. He was a guilty coward. He was-

Héctor couldn't even think of words to describe just how despicable his old friend – his _former_ friend – was.

/

It took him the better part of an hour to get back home, probably because he'd come across a tin can and had kicked it all the way from the brand new de la Cruz plaza to the shanty town that he and hundreds of others called home.

Kicking the tin can was childish, but he imagined it was Ernesto and, yeah, it made him feel a little better. Which was also childish. But such were his thoughts.

He passed under the archway that led to what some called the City of the Forgotten, though it was little better than the slums in the Land of the Living. What made the difference, he always thought, was the camaraderie, even affection, that existed between the residents.

After the first seven years down here, he had found his way to the shanty town and was greeted with open arms. Everyone here knew the pain, the frustration of being left off the _ofrenda_ year after year.

Héctor gave the tin can a particular hard kick and it went flying off the rickety walkway and into the darkness.

"Hey!" a gruff shout came from a few metres away.

He cringed. " _Lo siento, señor_."

A man emerged from the shadows, short and bowlegged with a scowl one his face. One hand rubbed his skull, the other held...a guitar.

Héctor drew in a sharp breath. "I apologize again," he said quickly. "That-that is a beautiful guitar." He had seen other guitars here in the Land of the Dead, of course. But this one was different. The satiny shine of its wooden body stood out in contrast to the general neglect and decay of the City of the Forgotten and he knew that this guitar was well-loved and well-played.

"Could I perhaps...play it?"

The man drew it protectively to his side. "It is _my_ guitar."

"Of course, _señor_. I know, I was just-"

"Can you even play?" the man said. He sounded slightly less annoyed now.

Héctor shrugged with the customary self-deprecation of any musician. "A little."

The man looked from his guitar to Héctor and back.

"Do you know 'Juanita'?"

/

After Héctor played for the man – who had finally introduced himself as Chicharrón, though saying that, as a brother guitarist, Héctor could call him 'Cheech' – they sat outside Cheech's home and swapped stories about their days as musicians in the Land of the Living.

Cheech shook his head as he laughed. "Those were the days!" he said. "Of course, it all came to an end in 1932 – a simple barroom brawl and I was dead."

Héctor nodded. At least Cheech had gone out fighting. Whereas he-

Food poisoning was not the most glamorous way to go.

"So tell me, amigo," said Cheech, rubbing his skull, "why were you kicking garbage onto my head?"

Héctor shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It's my head!"

"Okay, okay..." Apparently his new friend was as volatile as a stick of dynamite waiting for a match. Héctor glanced over at Cheech, sitting with one leg propped up against one of the wooden posts that held the roof up. "Well, it's like this-"

And without even meaning to, the entire story came spilling out. The tale of two boys, both musicians, both destined for greatness, both destined for their music to be heard by the world. And then how one of them had given up that dream to marry the most amazing girl that ever walked the earth. How, eventually, he had walked away from that amazing girl and their daughter to pursue his dream, to 'seize his moment'. How he had found life on the circuit meaningless. How he had died just when he was going home to see Imelda and Coco.

When he spoke of Ernesto's betrayal of their friendship, the full weight of that betrayal hit him all over again and it was hard to keep from shouting empty words into the night. Here in the City of the Forgotten, there was nobody to care.

Cheech said nothing while Héctor spoke. He only strummed his guitar softly and nodded when Héctor would pause to collect his thoughts.

"So what are you going to do about it?" was all he said when Héctor fell silent.

"Do?" Héctor laughed, but it was the sound of bitterness. "What can I possibly do?"

Cheech shifted a little in his seat. "You will let de la Cruz treat you like dirt? No! Find a way to see him and confront him with what he has done. Let _him_ work to make it right."

"But I can't even get into his stupid mansion," Héctor said. "It's hopeless."

Cheech turned back to his guitar, running a bony hand over the smooth wood. "You will think of something."

Héctor stood. " _Gracias_ , Cheech."

Cheech waved his thanks away. "Now go. Think of something, _amigo_."

He half-smiled. "I will."

It wasn't until he reached the small shack he called home that a plan came to him.

/

The janitor went around to the back entrance of the great Ernesto de la Cruz's mansion and knocked on the door, once, twice.

A burly security guard opened the door a crack and peered out. The janitor almost rolled his eyes. De la Cruz must be _muy_ paranoid if he had this many security guards roaming around. He'd had to wade through over a dozen of them between the front gate and this door. And now here was another one.

"Who are you?"

"The new janitor, _amigo_. The Department of Celebrity Staff sent me over."

"You are a celebrity?"

The janitor sighed. "No. I work _for_ celebrities. Get it?"

The guard thought for a moment. "But...we already have a janitor."

"And you think one puny guy is going to clean this whole place from top to bottom every night?" The janitor shook his head. "I'm here to help."

"Well, all right."

The guard pulled the door farther open and the janitor slipped through, pushing his tiny cart of cleaning supplies in front of him.

"Oh," he said, turning back to the guard as if he'd forgotten something, "can you tell me where de la Cruz is at the moment?"

The guard was suspicious again. "Why?"

The janitor shrugged. "Wouldn't want to go bargin' in on him while I'm cleaning, would I?"

"Oh. Of course not. I believe he's in the third dining room."

"Thanks," the janitor said and marched off, muttering to himself. Third dining room? Ridiculous.

/

Héctor had used the janitor disguise on last year's _Día de los Muertos_. He'd used the cover story of a janitor being sent to sweep away the marigold petals that invariably were littered everywhere outside and inside the border, what with all the _familias_ coming and going. He'd never made it past the border guard but had kept the disguise just as he kept all his disguises. For once, it had proved useful.

With the help of directions from a young, naive housemaid, Héctor found his way to the third dining room without much trouble.

At the door he paused for a long moment.

What would he say to Ernesto?

What would Ernesto say to _him_?

He pushed the janitor's cart away and removed the janitor's apron before running a hand through his hair. And then he pushed open the door.

The dining room was massive. Palatial. The table ran almost the length of the room and at the far end, illuminated by the chandelier that was half the size of the table, sat Ernesto. He squinted across the room at Héctor who stood on the shadowy edge of the room which the light from the chandelier could not quite reach.

"Who are you?" said Ernesto and he gasped when Héctor stepped into the light. "Héctor?"

"Yes, Ernesto. It's me."

The shock on Ernesto's face was wiped away in a moment, replaced by an expression like that of a cat caught eating the favourite goldfish. "Héctor...I-I never expected-"

"Don't give me that, Ernesto." He came closer. "You said you didn't know me when your guards sent up my name."

Ernesto stood. "They must have been lying, _mi amigo_. They never told me you came for a visit."

He didn't believe a word of that, but there were larger matters to be dealt with.

"Why did you steal my songs?" There. It was better to have the question out in the open.

Ernesto took a step back. There was a flash of worry – or was it fear? - in his eyes. "I didn't mean to, Héctor. But you were dead and the songs were there and I thought it would be a shame not to sing them, to let the world hear your genius."

Héctor shook his head. "But everyone thought it was _your_ genius. Not mine."

"And I apologize for that. My agent...he thought it would be best if the songs were sung under my name. After all, we both know that I was more suited for fame. People already knew my name, but you?" Ernesto shrugged. "Not so much."

Anger, hot and overwhelming, rose in Héctor's chest. "And what about my family?"

"What about them?"

"They must have heard the songs – _my_ songs. They would have known I wrote them."

Ernesto shook his head. "When I went to see Imelda, she slammed the door in my face." He pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly looking worn, too tired to stand. "Take a seat, my friend. Would you like some _tres leche_ cake?"

Héctor ignored both offers. "You saw Imelda?"

Ernesto nodded. He looked more controlled now. "As I was walking away, a young girl came up and told me that her mama – Imelda – had banned music. So you see, they did not hear my songs."

"How did she look? How did they look?" Héctor felt a new tightness in his throat, only this time it wasn't anger that caused it.

Ernesto's face softened. "Imelda, I only caught a glimpse of. She looked just the same as when you left, my friend. Perhaps some grey in her hair, but as I said, I only saw her for a moment. And your daughter?"

"Coco," Héctor whispered.

"She was turning out to be a very beautiful young woman."

Héctor sank into a chair. He stared at the floor but his thoughts were far, far away. Imelda and Coco. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for ever leaving them.

"Why don't we let bygones be bygones, _mi amigo_?" Ernesto said. "We are both dead now and nothing can change that."

Héctor looked up suddenly, jerked back from his thoughts to the present. The _now_.

"No, Ernesto. We may both be dead, but you will be on hundreds of _ofrendas_ next _Día de los Muertos_. Imelda has never put up my photo, not once, and it is your fault." He shoved the chair away and paced back and forth as all the words, all the pent-up anger came spilling out. "You stole my songs. You didn't even try to keep my memory alive. And-and worst of all, you never told my family that I was coming back to them the night I died. Never!"

Ernesto shook his head. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Héctor, but it's not the truth."

Héctor turned around to face his old partner.

"After I left Santa Cecilia, I wrote Imelda a letter, telling her that you were going home to her just before you died. She wrote back a letter and, well, she said she didn't care." Ernesto sighed. "She said that you had abandoned her and Coco and nothing would change the way she felt about that. I'm truly sorry, my friend." He moved to put a hand on Héctor's shoulder but Héctor shoved it away.

"No...it can't be true. Imelda would never-"

Or would she? Imelda had always had a quick temper and he knew how much she valued her family, how much she had despised him for leaving. Imelda had valued family above all else. He knew because those values were what had driven them apart. And he, fool that he was, had thought pursuing his music more important than Imelda and Coco.

Yes, it could be true. And why would Ernesto lie now when it would change nothing?

"I didn't want to tell you, Héctor, because I knew it would upset you."

He couldn't stand to hear Ernesto's smooth, concerned voice anymore. Not when his world had shattered into a hundred pieces. So he stalked out, leaving his janitor's cart in the hallway, his disguise drooping over the cart handles. He ran and ran and ran, out the back door and into the alley beyond and then further and further until he reached the shanty town.

Imelda hated him. Loathed him, even. She would never put his photo on the _ofrenda_ and, worse, she would never forgive him. Nor would Coco...

/

The months changed to years, the years melted into decades, and with each new _Día de los Muertos_ , Héctor's escape attempts grew a little more frantic, his clothes a little more ragged, his hope a little more threadbare.

He would be forgotten soon. It was only a matter of time. He feared it.

And there was nothing he could do to change that.


End file.
